“No, I can,” Louisa said, sounding as if she were convincing herself as much as Annabel. “He’s actually much easier to talk to than most men.”

“I’d noticed,” Annabel said weakly.

Louisa sighed. “Yes, I expect you had. Very well, you must go home, and I will go…”

Annabel waited.

“I will go with you,” Louisa finished decisively. “That’s a much better idea.”

Annabel could only blink.

“If I go with you, no one will suspect anything, even if Mr. Grey departs as well.” Louisa gave her a sheepish shrug. “It’s an advantage of a sterling reputation.”

Before Annabel could inquire as to what that said abouther reputation, Louisa cut in with: “You’re an unknown quantity. But me…No one ever suspects me of anything.”

“Are you saying that they should?” Annabel asked carefully.

“No.” Louisa shook her head, almost wistfully. “I never do anything wrong.”

But as they made their way from their curtained hideaway, Annabel could have sworn she heard Louisa whisper, “Sadly.”

Three hours later Sebastian walked into his club, still rather annoyed by how the evening had turned out. Miss Winslow, he was told, had taken ill during the intermission and departed with Lady Louisa, who had insisted upon accompanying her.

Not that Sebastian believed a word of it. Miss Winslow had been such a picture of health, the only way she could have taken ill was if she’d been attacked by a leper in the stairwell.

The Ladies Cosgrove and Wimbledon, freed of their duties as chaperones, had departed as well, leaving their guests alone in the box. Olivia immediately moved to the front row, setting a program on the chair next to her for Harry, who had gone off to the lobby.

Sebastian had remained for the second act, mostly because Olivia had insisted upon it. He’d been all prepared to go home and write (the leper in the stairwell had given him all sorts of ideas), but she had positively yanked him into the seat next to her and hissed, “If you depart everyone will think you’ve left with Miss Winslow, and I will not allow you to ruin the poor girl in her first season.”

“She left with Lady Louisa,” he protested. “Am I really thought so reckless that I’d engage in amenage a trois with that?”

“That?”

“You know what I mean,” he said with a scowl.

“Everyone will think it a ruse,” Olivia explained. “Lady Louisa’s reputation may be unimpeachable, but yours is not, and the way you were carrying on with Miss Winslow during the first act…”

“I wastalking with her.”

“What are you talking about?” It was Harry, returned from the lobby, needing to get past them to his seat.

“Nothing,” they both snapped, adjusting their legs to let him by.

Harry’s brows rose, but he merely yawned. “Where did everyone go?” he asked, sitting down.

“Miss Winslow took ill,” Olivia told him, “and Lady Louisa accompanied her home. The two aunts departed as well.”

Harry gave a shrug, since he was generally more interested in the opera than gossip, and picked up his program.

Sebastian turned to Olivia, who had resumed her glare. “Are you still scolding me?”

“You should have known better,” Olivia said in a hushed voice.

Sebastian glanced over at Harry. He was immersed in the libretto, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.

Which, knowing Harry, meant he heard every word.

Sebastian decided he didn’t care. “Since when have you become Miss Winslow’s champion?” he asked.

“I’m not,” she said, shrugging her elegant shoulders. “But it is obvious she is new to town and in need of guidance. I applaud Lady Louisa for taking her home.”

“How do you know Lady Louisa took her home?”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she said, giving him an impatient look. “How can you even ask?”

And that was the end of it. Until he arrived at the club.

Which was when all hell broke loose.

Chapter Eleven

You bastard!”

Sebastian was normally an observant fellow, blessed with quick reflexes and a healthy sense of self-preservation, but his mind had been uncharacteristically stuck on a single topic—the curve of Miss Winslow’s lips—and he had not been paying much attention to his surroundings as he entered the club.

Thus he had not seen his uncle.

Or his uncle’s fist.

“What the hell?”

The force of the blow slammed Sebastian into a wall, which led his shoulder to be only slightly less painful than his eye, which was probably already turning black.

“Since the moment you were born,” his uncle seethed, “I have known you to be without morals or discipline, butthis —”

This? Whatthis ?

“This,” his uncle continued, his voice shaking with fury, “is beneath even you.”

Since the moment I was born, Seb thought with something that was almost exasperation.Since the moment I was born . Well, his uncle was right about that, at least. Back to his earliest memories, his uncle had been angry and hard, always insulting, always finding new ways to make a boy feel small. Sebastian had later realized that the rancor was inevitable. Newbury had never liked Sebastian’s father, who had been but eleven months his junior. Adolphus Grey had been taller, more athletic, and better-looking than his older brother. Probably smarter, too, although Sebastian had to admit, his father had never been one for books.

As for Seb’s mother, Lord Newbury had thought her appallingly beneath the family.

Sebastian, he considered the spawn of the devil.

Seb had learned to live with it. And occasionally live up to it. Really, he hadn’t much cared. His uncle was a nuisance, rather like a pesky, albeit large, insect. The strategy was the same: avoid, and if that proved impossible, swat.

But he didn’t say this. Because really, what would be the point? Instead he staggered to his feet, dimly aware that an audience was gathering. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Miss Vickers,” Newbury hissed.

“Who?” Seb asked distractedly. He should probably pay more attention to whatever his uncle was blathering on about, but damn, his eyereally hurt. The bloody bruise would probably show for a week. Who knew the old bag had it in him?

“Her name ain’t Vickers,” someone said.

Sebastian removed his hand from his eye, blinking carefully. Bloody hell. His vision was still blurry. What his uncle lacked in muscle he made up for in heft, and he’d apparently put all of it behind his punch.

Several gentlemen were standing near, presumably hoping that a fight would break out, which of course it would not. Sebastian would never hit his uncle, no matter how roundly he deserved it. If he hit Newbury, it would surely prove too lovely a sensation to resist, and then Seb would have to beat him to a pulp. Which would be very bad form.

Besides, he did not lose his temper. Ever. Everyone knew that, and if they didn’t, they should.

“Who, pray tell, is Miss Vickers?” Sebastian asked, molding his body into an insolent slouch.

“She’s not a Vickers,” someone said. “Her mother was a Vickers. Her father was someone else.”

“Winslow,” the earl bit off. “Her name is Winslow.”

Seb felt his fingers begin to tingle. His right hand might have formed a fist. “What about Miss Winslow?”

“Do you pretend not to know?”

Seb shrugged, though the casual motion took all of his concentration. “I pretend nothing.”

His uncle’s eyes glittered nastily. “She will soon be your aunt, dear nephew.”

The breath whooshed from Sebastian’s body, and he thanked whatever god or architect had made sure there was a wall nearby for him to lean a shoulder against.

Annabel Winslow was Lord Vickers’s granddaughter. She was that lush, voluptuous creature Newbury was panting after, the one so fertile she sent birds into fits of song.

It all made sense now. He’d been wondering how a country miss should become such close friends with a duke’s daughter. She and Lady Louisa were first cousins. Of course they would be friends.

He thought back to his conversation withhis cousin, the bit about the fertile hips and singing birds. Miss Winslow’s figure was every bit as spectacular as Edward had described. When Sebastian thought about the way Edward’s eyes had glazed over when he’d described her breasts…

Seb tasted acid. He might have to hit Edward. His uncle was off-limits due to age, but Edward was fair game.

Miss Annabel Winslow was indeed a ripe piece of fruit. And his uncle was planning to marry her.

“You will stay away from her,” his uncle said in a low voice.

Sebastian did not speak. He had no ready quip or retort, so he said nothing. It was better that way.

“Although God knows if I still want her, given her dubious lapse in judgment.”

Sebastian focused on his breathing, which was quickening dangerously.

“You may have looks and youth,” Newbury continued, “but I have the title. And I will be damned

before you get your grasping hands on it.”

Seb shrugged. “I don’t want it.”

“Of course you do,” Newbury scoffed.

“I don’t,” Sebastian said carelessly. He was beginning to feel more himself. Amazing what a touch of insolence and attitude could do to restore a man. “I wish you would just hurry up and spawn yourself a new heir. The whole thing is bloody inconvenient.”

Newbury’s face grew even more florid, not that Sebastian would have thought it possible. “Inconvenient? You dare to call the earldom of Newbury inconvenient?”